


Homage Via Latte

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Coffee Shop, D/s relationship, M/M, Rimming, Wet & Messy, but not an au, foot job, non-negotiated scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-14 07:11:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15383430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Eames gets a notion to rewrite history, this time with the proper ending.Based on Messed Up, which in turn was based on Kneel in Worship. This takes place about couple months after the job in Messed Up.





	Homage Via Latte

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenThayet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenThayet/gifts).



> For Our Darling QueenThayet, who has worked so hard for that PhD and of whom we are so, so proud! Revisiting this 'verse was incredible fun.

Arthur watches Eames order their coffees at the counter from his seat in the corner of the room. He likes to be able to see all the exits; the practices that make him the best pointman in the business aren’t something that can be shrugged off like a cheap blazer. They produce habitual thought processes, procedures, routines. Sometimes his mind feels a little too much like a steel trap, one with himself caught inside. 

Something is up with Eames today; a gleam in his eye foretells some kind of incipient mischief, but Arthur can’t predict what it might turn out to be. It irritates and thrills him. 

Eames saunters back over to the table with two drinks in his large hands, and both of the drinks are-

“ _Iced?_ Eames, when have I ever ordered or voluntarily drunk an iced anything? What even _is_ that?”

“It’s just a mocha, darling. Well, a salted caramel mocha with extra whip. I made sure they had the good chocolate, no pedestrian Hersheys, you needn’t fuss so.” He places the offending beverage in front of Arthur with an authoritative clink on the zinc tabletop. “And trust me, you’ll be glad of the straw.” 

Arthur both loves and hates the smirk that curls Eames’ mouth. His nostrils flare. “Are you playing a _game_ with me, right now?” He gets a wink in return. “In  public?” 

They’ve only just begun their… whatever this is. Liaison. Experiment. Relationship. After that job in Portugal, Eames had ensured they only work jobs together. They share hotel rooms and beds and showers and meals. And other things, as well. But aside from that very first time, there haven’t been official negotiations or structure placed around it. They’ve simply felt their way along, with Eames proposing (usually wordlessly) and Arthur accepting (also usually wordlessly). This, though, seems like the kind of thing they ought to have hashed out beforehand.

“Oh, Arthur, don’t look so put out. Don’t worry,” Eames says, voice dropping. “I’ll make sure that whatever happens, no one will be the wiser. You did say you trust me.”

A smile twitches Arthur’s mouth at the reminder. “I did, Mr. Eames.” He can’t help but enjoy the way Eames’ eyes light up when he uses the ‘mister.’ “So, why am I going to be so grateful for this straw?”

“Because you’re not going to be able to use your hands for the next little while, not until I say so. Will you be my good boy?” 

Arthur suppresses a shiver. He holds Eames’ gaze as he asks, “Where should I put my hands?”

Eames smiles broadly. “On the table. Where I can see them.”

Arthur lets his hands fall naturally to the surface of the table, relaxes them. He leans forward, still looking into Eames’ eyes, and takes a long sip of his coffee. He can’t help the noise of pleasure that emanates from his throat, an embarrassing whimper. He never lets himself have drinks like this, despite that he has a secret sweet tooth. His cock starts to get hard, and he’s almost proud of himself. Losing face in public isn’t a kink he’d known he might have--would have predicted rather the opposite. 

Eames’ face, when his lashes flutter up so he can see it, is slack with desire. Just for a hot moment, and then the mask comes down, covering his lust with deep amusement. Arthur can sense the plans within plans almost visibly churning in his head. 

“It’s good?” Eames asks, and Arthur nods. Eames looks pointedly at the drink and Arthur bends forward again to take another long sip from the straw; the thick, creamy liquid fills his mouth.

Eames stretches theatrically and shifts in his chair, and Arthur is so busy noticing the beautiful lines of his strong body that he doesn’t notice the pressure on his thigh until it shifts towards his groin. He startles and shifts back, giving Eames’ foot the room it needs to settle between his spread thighs. His hands jerk as he wrestles with his instinctive desire to check what’s going on down there, but he forces them still. 

Eames’ gaze on him is steady. “You’ve got a little cream on your mouth,” he says, pushing his toes against Arthur’s now-full erection. Precome slides out and eases the friction, makes it delicious. Too good. He barely stops himself from moaning, barely stops himself from covering his mouth to stifle it. Eames presses his advantage, applying pressure in a slithering, kneading motion. 

“That drink cost seven dollars, pet,” he says on a low rumble. “I hope you don’t let it go to waste.” Arthur just stares at him, lost in the rhythmic motions of that insinuating foot, his hips bucking into it. 

“Drink.” 

His eyes flutter shut as he leans forward, the movement causing Eames’ toes to graze the now-soaking head of his prick. The drink goes down easy; he opens his throat and lets it surge in. He doesn’t give a fuck about the people in the cafe now. They can enjoy the show for all he cares. 

A groan escapes him as he jerks forward, chasing the sensation. His sense of propriety and paranoia return and he covers it by getting the straw back in his mouth, feigning rapture over the chocolatey sludge that fills his mouth rather than the relentless, insinuating play of Eames’ foot over his cock. 

“It’s that good?” Eames asks, eyes hooded, mouth a teasing almost-smile. 

“It’s so--so good,” Arthur manages, his hands flexing in frustration. He wants to grab Eames foot and hump it, force it against him while he ruts out his desperation. 

“Here,” Eames says, sounding nearly unaffected. “Try mine.” He pushes the drink towards Arthur, just out of his reach. His eyes gleam diabolically.

Arthur knows what’s coming next, or he thinks he does. He suddenly flashes on having told Eames how turned on he’d been the day they’d met, the day Eames had dumped coffee in his lap, ruining his third-favorite suit, then nearly discovered his erection while trying to wipe it up. 

Arthur eyes the very full drink in front of him, sizing up the distance. He would have to rise out of his seat to get his mouth around the straw, and he’s sporting a gigantic hard-on with a commensurately large wet spot on his... goddamn it, Eames requested the pale gray trousers on purpose. He almost wants to smile, except this situation is so hot that he’s trembling. 

Their eyes lock on each other as Arthur refuses to get up. A little strategic digging-in-of-heels never hurt their scenes. Eames raises a challenging eyebrow and nudges the drink forward a bare millimeter, not enough to be useful but enough to lay down the law. He doesn’t even have to say it, Arthur can hear the command in his mind. Arthur leans in, can’t reach, leans in further and still can’t reach. Eames’ gray gaze bores into him. With a sub-audible growl, he begins to lever himself up just as Eames pushes the drink forward and somehow manages to tip it over. The clink startles him back in his seat and he sits there as the dark, cool liquid flows over the table and floods his lap. 

His face flushes as his erection momentarily wilts then returns full force one the shock of cold wears off. They sit there, watching as the cascade slows to a trickle, Eames holding Arthur’s eyes like a tractor beam. He feels like he’s going to burst into flame. The cafe doesn’t exist. Nothing exists except this absurd, wonderful moment of claiming. 

After a long beat, Eames surges his feet, exclaiming how sorry he is, what an oaf he is, Arthur simply must forgive his clumsiness and let him help clean up. He angles Arthur’s chair away from the table but blocks him from view with his broad back, crouched down with a towel that’s been plucked from thin air. He looks up at Arthur while he brings it to the sopping wet mess in his lap, rubbing over his thigh and up, up, nnnngh god, oh fuck. 

Eames is stroking his cock through his pants, the precome and coffee just enough to prevent chafing, as if Arthur gives a fuck about chafing when Eames is looking at him like he hung the motherfucking moon, instead of sitting totally, hypnotically still while getting soaked with a latte. Arthur jerks up into Eames’ fingers, which have abandoned the towel to curl around his length through the wet linen, and come pours out of him in hot spurts. Eames feels the warmth, Arthur can tell, by the way he suddenly looks righteously, ecstatically pleased. 

“The coffee stain should disguise the lovely, sticky mess you’ve made of your pants,” he purrs in Arthur’s ear as he stands up from his crouch. A rush of gratitude fills Arthur, leaving little room for the curious looks of several of cafe’s patrons as Eames puts a protective arm around his shoulder and escorts him out the door. 

Their hotel is just down the block and they waste no time getting up to their room, where Eames strips Arthur with graceful authority. He’s solicitous, gentle--until he sees the utter mess Arthur’s made of his boxer briefs, then the animal comes out and he’s nuzzling and licking until Arthur is completely hard again, shaking and begging. 

No one has ever gotten him out his head as quickly and thoroughly as the man before him on his knees. Eames may as well be towering over him; Arthur feels as though he’d do anything for him, be anyone for him, but the miraculous thing is that Eames only wants him to be who he is. Hesitant, cautious, a wire strung taut to be played beautifully.

“Get on the bed, love,” Eames rumbles, and Arthur goes, stumbling backwards but steadied by Eames’ warm hands. 

“Turn on your front. Spread.”

Arthur buries his face in the duvet, smiling dopily as he feels Eames climb on top of him, nudging his legs further apart with insistent knees.

“You were fucking gorgeous in there, pet. You deserve a reward.”

Arthur shakes his head but doesn’t deny verbally, because why would he turn down this offer? He knows Eames has already given him the gift of redemption. He’s seen through the trappings of control to the need within. 

His cheeks are hauled apart by hungry fingers and then the air hits his perineum, still damp from the milky drink and from his own come. Eames makes a noise that has Arthur bucking up, offering himself to whatever might come next. 

What comes next is a probing finger, and a hiss. “Ah, love, you’re much too tight. That scene in the cafe wound you up, tsk. Let’s get you relaxed.” Then silence for a beat, and warm wet teasing flicks of Eames’ tongue down the cleft of his ass. Arthur wiggles and groans, low and long. Eames lifts his hips, hitching him closer and driving his tongue deep, flexing and swirling. 

“Mmmm, that latte was delicious, I feel I should have tipped better,” Eames murmurs, then sucks on the loosening rim, diving in again. Arthur laughs, then his eyes roll back in his head as two fingers breach him. 

“You were so good for me, darling,” Eames says, his words a dark slur of desire as Arthur feels his weight shift. There’s a sound of a bottle cap opening, the rude noise of lube dispensed, but that’s all the warning he gets before Eames thrusts the head in, gasping. The rest of him follows quickly, a snap of the hips and then the ride is on for real. All that cool assessment, all that gentleness and tender concern evaporates as his cock slams in, hard, again. Again. 

“Nnnngh, fuck,” he grunts, and then loses his words. Arthur is shaken, driven up the bed, his ass the fulcrum of two heaving, jerking bodies slamming together relentlessly. He could take it like this for hours, it’s heaven on earth. The air grows hot between them, power plays and games replaced by sweat and panting. This is just them, and they both know it.

He’s rearing back, giving himself as he takes, asking for more, wanting it to never stop, but his cock jerks and without losing his rhythm, Eames slides a hand under and grips him tight. Arthur shouts and convulses, painting the covers with his release. Eames stills and then shudders, pulls out with a groan. Warm stripes cover Arthur’s shoulders and neck as Eames growls, “Love, mmmmnngh, oh god,” and slumps down, taking Arthur with him. They end up on their sides, Arthur cradled in Eames’ embrace. 

“Next time perhaps you won’t complain about iced coffee,” Eames murmurs his ear. 

“Next time perhaps I’ll just spill it on myself and save us the trouble,” Arthur says, sleepy, sated. 

“Don’t save me the trouble. I like the trouble.” He can hear the smug smile in Eames’ voice, and he knows that what Eames is pleased with is not just himself, but the two of them. Together.


End file.
